


A Thousand Days and a Thousand Nights

by lacat123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Car Accidents, Child Death, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, I’m sorry, Mental Breakdown, Please Don't Hate Me, SO MANY TAGS!!, Sad Ending, Sad Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester Needs Brain Bleach, Sam Winchester Needs Help, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug, Sam Winchester in Hell, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Sam Winchester, Suicidal Sam Winchester, Suicide, The Author Regrets Everything, This Was A Bad Decision Written Late At Night, What Was I Thinking?, all the feels, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 09:59:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17640617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacat123/pseuds/lacat123
Summary: Who knew how many days it had been, how long he had been in this hell. All he knew is that it needed to end, that he needed to break this endless cycle. He just didn't know how.AKA: Sam is trapped in the Mystery Spot, forever reliving the day of Dean's death again and again. Until he finally figures out a way to escape. But sometimes, perfect plans get destroyed, and the best of people get corrupted.





	A Thousand Days and a Thousand Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all. This one-shot here is a canon-divergent version of Mystery Spot. And this story is way darker then possibly anything else I've posted on here to date. It takes a lot to move that rating up. 
> 
> Be warned that there are multiple very graphic suicides with suicidal and self-harming thoughts throughout the story. If you think that will trigger you, steer clear of this. I will put a short description of each death along with any other triggers in the end-notes, so if you want more details go below. 
> 
> Hope everyone likes this!

Day 736

He had already been here for hundreds, maybe thousands, of days. Woken up in that bed hundreds of times. Drank the same glass of water from the slightly rusty sink in their bathroom, wincing at the coppery taste that coated his tongue. Had walked down that street with the dog and the women and those damn workers who just never fucking shut up. 

And he had watched Dean die. Over, and over, and over again. 

Every. Single. Fucking. Day.

Decapitation. Choking. Poisoning. 

Every day was slightly different, but only enough to allow for Dean's death. Like that one time where the waitress had been pushed instead of losing her balance and the hot sauce bottle had flown up into the air straight at Dean-

He would prefer not to remember that day. 

He didn't have any control over the schedule. The only way he could impact the events of the day was to change him and Dean. Suggesting they go to the coffee shop across the street, or insisting that he not take a shower, or eat the tacos from the iffy corner store. 

One day, he had needed it over, to start a new day and forget it had all happened. It had just been too much. 

The day started the same as any other Tuesday. Woke up to that song, listened to Dean gurgle his water for the exact seven-point-two seconds he counted every morning. Then the waitress, pig-in-a-poke, hot sauce, dog, women, workmen, car. But it changed once they got to the Mystery Spot. 

It had been the one time where he himself had killed his brother purposely, shooting him straight in the chest. Watching as his brother fell onto the ground painted with swirls, his chest full of buckshot that he had put there. It was one of the worst things he's done yet. And he has done some very bad things on this day.

The next morning, or as close as he got to it, he hadn't gotten out of bed to Dean's shouting. Even as his only family shook him and told him to snap out of it, he locked himself tightly down. Closed every lock and tossed every key away into an abyss that lay in the bottom of his mind.

He didn't get up that morning.

He didn't move for thirty days.

Until today. 

It had taken two hundred and sixty-five days to stop searching for a way out. To stop counting. To stop investigating that damned Mystery Spot with the old man and his shotgun and his very unstable chairs glued to the ceiling. He had seen Dean die enough times by that point that it didn't make sense to try and fend off the inevitable.

But in his hands was a chance. He knew that it was stupid, a bad idea that he would probably regret tomorrow. He hoped beyond hope that tomorrow would be Wednesday, a day finally free from this pain, but at this point he'd settle for anything other than today. 

He fingered the small knife in his palm, the one with the oak-wood handle that Dean had bought him for his sixteenth birthday. How his brother had gotten the money, he didn't know, but was always grateful for the small present. So much better than the gift he had given him on his birthday that year, a copy of Dean's favorite book stolen from the local library. 

Settling the cool metal onto his skin sent goosebumps running up and down his arms. This was his last idea, the last way he could think of to escape the endless hell that he was living in. The hell that he had created.

The door was locked from the inside, sealing him in the bathroom away from his brother. He needed to go quickly, couldn't risk the older hunter dying before he could kill himself. 

That was his plan. To die before Dean does, and break the cycle. 

He forced more pressure onto the blade, and felt the edge bite deep into his skin. It felt nice, a change from all the death and peril that had surrounded him. Something he could actually control. Because if he couldn't keep Dean from dying, even if he couldn't change the world around him, he could control this. 

More blood was already running down his arm and pooling on the tile below him. The knife had slipped into his vein, slitting his wrist. All he could do now was wait. 

He gasped slightly as he pulled the silver out from his arm, putting the red-stained weapon onto the ground beside him. He leaned back heavily against the tub, waiting for the room to start to spin and the colors to bleed out. He had had his wrists slit before, though never of his own volition. 

He really didn't have very much doubt that he would wake up. Whether it be in Heaven, Hell, or somewhere in between, he wouldn't just ceise to exist. He was lucky, he realized; it made this choice so much easier. 

Now the carnival ride had really started up, and his teeth chattered. The cold flooded through him, moving in waves with tendrils that wrapped around his heart, his lungs. 

His body wasn't propped up against the bath anymore, he realized. Every inch of his exposed skin was flush with the floor. He felt something like disgust curl in his gut at the dirt and germs and general grossness that now felt like it was crawling over his limbs. 

He would need a shower tomorrow. 

It took a long time, much longer than he expected. The time ticked by slowly, marked only be the steady drip of blood as it fell from his wrist into the growing puddle. 

It took fifty-two drips for his vision to grey. Another twelve for him to lose his eyesight completely. 

Nineteen more for his body to go numb. 

His hearing was fading faster, though. It only took seven drips for him to longer be able to count. 

He lay there in a state of limbo, not alive, yet not dead. Trapped between reality and the other planes as he lost his senses. 

His thoughts grew weaker, as though he was shouting at himself underwater inside his head. It was a millisecond, an eternity, before those stopped, too. 

 

__________________

 

Day 737

 

"It was the heat of the moment..."

"Rise and shine, Sammy," 

No. 

Nonononono. 

It had to have worked. 

Please, by God or whatever force was doing this, it had to have worked.

But he cracked his eyes open, and saw Dean pulling on and lacing his boots. He was smiling, singing along right with that song. 

That goddamn, motherfucking song. 

He threw the covers off his body, and ran out into the bathroom. He could hear Dean stop the music and call to him, but he ignored it. 

Looking down, he saw the faint, silvery scar that stretched up his wrist under the bright lights. His finger traced the line until it ended, just beneath his elbow. 

He wanted to cry, scream, pull out all his hair. But all he did was sink onto the floor. This disgusting, motel bathroom floor that should be covered in his blood, but was now clean and spotless. 

The hand that was over the cut pressed deeper, his nails digging crescents deep into his flesh. He watched with satisfaction as blood dripped slowly down and the drops stained the tile. 

Dean finally made it to the doorway, walking inside before stopping as though he had hit a wall. His brother didn't know the hell he was going through, only saw his precious little Sammy hurting himself. 

It took a few seconds for the older hunter to snap out of it, and drop down beside him. To grab his arm and pull his fingers away from his flesh and scream what the hell he was doing. 

But he needed the pain, the little bit of clarity it gave, and Dean was taking that away from him. What right did he have to burst in here after thousands of days and judge him on how he was coping? 

All he wanted was his knife. Or his gun. Just to escape this horrible reality that he was being forced to relive over and over and over and over. 

His brother was still gripping him tightly, staring deep into his own blank eyes. He wouldn't be able to get to the weapons, not with Dean so high on alert already. The new day needed to start, and he couldn't just wait around for Dean to die, nor did he want to kill him. Again.

The answer seemed simple, and he hesitated only a moment before slamming his head against the wall beside him. 

The world quickly clicked black. 

 

___________

 

Day 738

 

He had watched for a few moments as Dean's hands deftly tied his shoes. Only a flicker of hesitation ran through him as he reached under the pillow and grabbed his gun. He didn't even hear Dean's shout as he pulled the trigger and the bullet shot into his head. 

 

__________

 

Day 763

 

He had made it to breakfast for the first time in a couple days. He knew Dean was watching him out of the corner of his eye. A large plate, steaming and loaded with eggs, appeared in front of him. He wasn't hungry, not really, though it had been hundreds of days since he had last eaten. 

 

The waitress came over again, this time to bring the hot sauce. He didn't even try to stop it as it fell, shattering across the floor. What's the point? He could end this anytime he wants, and let a new day begin. 

 

He reached down slowly, picking up a piece of the glass. It was coated in the red liquid, but he didn't really care. 

What's a little more pain? 

He swiftly plunged it into his heart, ignoring the woman's gasp and Dean's shout. Acid burned in his chest from the sauce that had coated the shard. This way was relatively fast, and he was already crashing towards the ground. But before he could slip into unconsciousness, he saw Dean slip on the red stain littering the ground. It was then the day stopped. 

 

__________________

 

Day 842

He stood quickly and walked outside, listening to the motel door's hinges creak. 

This definitely wasn't going to be the most pleasant way to die, but it works all the same. He takes a right, and feels a pull in the opposite direction, towards the diner. It wants him to go the other way. Sure, he's been down this path before, and generally it doesn't seem worth the extra effort to go through it, but he wants to today. And he's the one in control. 

A man walks down the street ahead of him, talking loudly into his flip-phone about taxes. He stays pretty far away as he passes, sidestepping his briefcase as he gestures fling it around him. 

A homeless women sits on the ground leaning against the glass of the covered bus stop. Next to her stands a cardboard sign and box, with a few pennies inside. As she speaks, he notices she's missing most of her teeth. She has a box cutter hidden in her tattered jacket.

He notices a girl, no more then six or seven, standing next to a single tree that had been planted by the city. Her hands twisted nervously in the adjustable strap of her backpack, and her face was pinched with worry. Her name is something pretty, he recalls vaguely. 

She was also part of the reason he hadn't gone down this path often. In the early days after he had given up finding a way out through the mystery spot, he had just tried to make it easier for Dean. Steer him towards less-painful days and deaths. 

This girl was one of the worst ways he had seen Dean die. 

She glanced up at him, seemingly unwary by the stranger next to her. She opened her mouth as though to say something, then quickly shut it and looked at the ground. He waited patiently beside her, knowing she just needs a few seconds to gather the courage to speak. 

When she finally does, her voice is soft, so low she's whispering. "Can you help me cross the street, sir? My bus stop is on the other side and Mommy had to go to work early today." She quickly looked back at the ground. 

He nods even though she can't see, and threads his fingers through her hands. Her face goes from worried to happy, knowing she finally has solved her problem. Someone will her help her cross the street, she'll go on the bus, then come home, and her mom will be there. 

He doesn't look both ways; there's no point. He could say every car that would pass, make, model, and plate. 

Together they step out into the road. The little girl is oblivious to the danger, the car racing towards them. But Sam? Sam knows. He has chosen this, and honestly, this was a good way for him to go. With the sun on his skin and a child's happiness beside him. 

It only took a few seconds for the car to reach them, and for the world to crash into darkness. 

 

____________

Day 843 

"It was the heat of the moment."

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers: 
> 
> Suicide by slitting wrists, head trauma, gunshot, stabbing, and car. 
> 
> Self-harming thoughts and actions
> 
> Death of a child
> 
>  
> 
> ~You are loved, and never alone. We are here for you, and you are enough.~


End file.
